“Oh,” said he, “you must turn that place up. I know it. One of our fellows was there once. It’s an awfully seedy place to belong to.”
“The worst of it is,” said I—who, since my evening at Doubleday’s, had come to treat him as a confidant—“that my uncle pays my lodging there; and if I went anywhere else he’d tell me to pay for myself.”
“That’s awkward,” said Doubleday, meditatively; “pity he should stick you in such a cheap hole.”
“I don’t think, you know,” said I, feeling rather extinguished by Doubleday’s pitying tone, “it’s such a very cheap place. It’s three-and-six a week.”
Doubleday gazed at me in astonishment, and then broke out into a loud laugh.
“Three-and-six a week! Why, my dear fellow, you could do it cheaper in a workhouse. Oh, good gracious! your uncle must be in precious low water to stick you up in a hole like that at three-and-six a week. Do you know what my lodgings cost, eh, young ’un?”
“No,” said I, very crestfallen; “how much?”
“Fifteen bob, upon my honour, and none too grand. Three-and-six a week, why—I say, Crow!”
“Oh, don’t go telling everybody!” cried I, feeling quite ashamed of myself.
“Oh, all serene. But it is rather rich, that. Good job you don’t get your grub there.”